Shop Till You Drop

Chapter 12

Desiree was dead.

Helen could forget that for half an hour or even half a day. Then she’d see a young woman with blonde hair tumbling down her back or hear a newscaster’s solemn voice, and it would come rushing back. Once again, she’d see that shocking news story. First, the bride-to-be in her black dress, then in her black body bag.

Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. As Helen walked home from work Tuesday night, her feet pounded that rhythm into the pavement.

Helen went dragging into her small, stuffy apartment and threw herself on the lumpy bed, not even bothering to change out of her suit. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. She felt old and fat and tired. But most of all, she felt discouraged. She’d wasted another lunch hour looking for work. Christina was due back in three days, and Helen still did not have another job. She would never escape Juliana’s. She would never get away from her guilt.

Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. The words pounded in Helen’s head until it felt like the whole room was beating to the rhythm.

Then Helen realized the whole room was beating to the rhythm. Her landlady was pounding on the door and calling her name. That woman had quite an arm on her. What was wrong now? Did Margery want to raise the rent? Helen straightened her rumpled suit, pushed her hair back, and opened the door.

Margery looked like an exotic orchid in a swirling lavender-print shorts set. Her toes were painted fuchsia. In her hand was a glass plate with one perfect chocolate-dipped strawberry.

“Thought this might cheer you up,” Margery said. “You look like forty miles of bad road. You’re too young and pretty to be so hangdog.”

Margery was smart, Helen thought. Her landlady had seen the slump of Helen’s shoulders as she came up the sidewalk and knew something was wrong. Rather than probe with nosy questions, Margery plied her with chocolate. It almost worked. For a minute, Helen thought of telling her about Desiree’s death. But then she hesitated, and the impulse was lost. Helen had kept silent for so long, she had lost the ability to confide.

Like all good liars, Helen knew enough to tell part of the truth when possible. So she said, “Work’s getting me down, Margery. I feel like a lumberjack around those women at Juliana’s.”

Margery snorted so hard it hurt Helen’s sinuses. “You don’t want to look like one of those helpless Barbie dolls, do you?”

“It’s not how they look. It’s how they make me feel. So Midwestern. So out of it. They’re so fashionable. They’re so South Beach.”

“Helen,” Margery said. “Those women are not real South Beach. They’re only wanna-bes. That’s why Juliana’s has to keep people out. Because they’re afraid. On South Beach, the doors are wide open. Everyone can walk in and succeed—or fall flat on her face.”

“No,” Helen protested. “Christina belongs. She goes to all the clubs. She knows the South Beach nightlife. She’s seen at all the hot places: Mynt. Pearl. Kiss. Rain. Crobar. She goes to dinner at The Forge. She’s been to B.E.D. with four women and one man.”

“I don’t care about her sex life,” Margery said.

“No. B.E.D. is the name of the club. It costs about a thousand dollars to get a good bed, at least that’s what Christina said, but you sit on these big beds, see, and—”

“The guys get to say, ‘I went to B.E.D. with four women last night.’ Real sophisticated.” Margery sniffed. Helen was grateful she didn’t snort.

“I guess that sounds silly. But Christina was at Bash the night Leonardo DiCaprio danced topless.”

“That’s what she says. Maybe she just read about it in Ocean Drive magazine. But I’ll tell you this much, Helen, even if she was there—she may remember Leonardo, but he won’t remember her. You don’t need to know the names of the clubs. Half of them will be out of business by next week. Don’t let Christina intimidate you. If she was really South Beach, she’d be in South Beach, not Fort Lauderdale.

“Eat your strawberry. You’ll feel better,” Margery commanded. “I’ve gotta go.”

And she was gone, leaving Helen with one perfect strawberry. Helen ate it in tiny bites, making it last as long as possible. On any other night, it would have cheered her up. But not tonight. Tonight she had to live with Desiree’s death. Tonight, she also had to live with her past.

As the evening sun sank lower, so did Helen’s spirits. In another hour, she would have to get out the cell phone she only used once a month and call her family. Helen dreaded her mother’s tears. Not even the call afterward to her beloved sister, Kathy, would make things better.

It was almost seven o’clock. Time for the call home. Helen locked the doors, closed the blinds, and opened the door to the closet with the water heater. She pulled out the suitcase and rummaged through the old-lady underwear until she found the cell phone and a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.

Helen didn’t have a phone in Lauderdale. She didn’t want to be traced. She’d bought this one in Kansas City and mailed her sister Kathy a thousand dollars to pay the monthly phone bills. Helen hoped that would cover them for a long time. If anyone found out about the phone, it was registered to a false name and purchased in Kansas. She hoped that would be enough to confuse any pursuers.

Helen braced herself, and dialed her mother’s number in St. Louis. “I will not get angry,” she told herself. “I will not shout. Mom belongs to a different generation. She doesn’t understand.”

“Hello, Mom,” she said. Her mother burst into tears. Actually, it was more like a whining wail. It always set Helen’s teeth on edge.

The phone call went exactly as Helen expected. Her mother cried and begged Helen to come home and be a good wife to her bad husband. “Think of your immortal soul,” her mother sobbed. “The Pope says divorce is wrong.”

“So let the Pope live with him,” Helen said, then regretted her outburst. She had hurt her mother’s feelings again.

“We could get a lawyer and work out the other problem, Helen honey, if you’d just get back with your husband.”

The other problem. Helen could not talk about that. She brought out the piece of pink cellophane. It was her escape. She crinkled the cellophane and said, “What’s that, Mom? I can’t hear you. I have to go now. You’re breaking up. I’ll call again on your birthday. Bye, Mom.”

Helen hung up the phone. The short conversation left her emotionally drained, as tired as if she’d been digging ditches. At least the call to her sister would be easier. Kathy was the only person from her old life who knew where Helen was and how to reach her in an emergency.

Kathy lived in the near-perfect St. Louis suburb of Webster Groves. She and Tom had a new baby, Allison, and ten-year-old Tommy Junior. They also had a big old house that needed paint and new plumbing. Tom’s salary was frozen at 1999 levels, and Kathy worked part-time as a checker at Target. But she rarely talked about their money problems.

“Helen, you sound tired,” Kathy said, when she answered the phone.

“I’ve been talking to Mom,” Helen said.

“Was it awful?”

“No worse than usual.”

“Seriously, Sis, how are you doing?” Kathy asked.

“I’m fine. I like my new life. I like the weather here. I wasted too much time sitting inside in the St. Louis winters. I hate winter. I feel like I got half my life back.”

Helen realized, once she said it, that it was true. If she could just find another job and figure out what to do about Christina, her new life would be good. She didn’t miss her old life or her old job. Only her old paycheck.

“You know if you’re ever in trouble, you can call me,” Kathy said. “I’ll send you money or come get you. I’ll hire a lawyer. I’ll post bail if you’re arrested. Whatever you want.”

“I know,” Helen said. She also knew she’d never call her sister for help. Kathy had enough problems with her active family.

They spent the rest of the time talking about Tom and the kids. Good things. Everyday things. And if Helen were truly honest, things she never wanted.

“That’s the baby crying. I’ve got to run. Good night, Sis. I love you,” Kathy said.

“I love you, too,” Helen said, feeling better, and lonelier, too. She switched off the phone and buried it in the suitcase.